A Hundred Days
by yesibelieveinsherlockholmes
Summary: Neither of them are coping; who will break first? Trigger warnings for self harm and attempted suicide.


Sherlock had always been spectacularly ignorant of the world, and anything around him, but now it was like he was blocking it out on purpose. After faking his death, he had hardly even moved from her couch.

It had been eighty two days; yes, she'd been counting, and he'd not asked her to do a single thing, not even speaking a word to her after it was all done. He looked like he was almost comatose, and certainly much too thin, not unlike John.

She was terrified. She had never seen either man like this, and the both of them were rejecting all of Molly's offered help. She felt useless. She was nothing more than lodgings and a shoulder to cry on.

She sighed and went to make coffee. She didn't ask this time. She just brought him a mug. Black, two sugars, as he'd always remind her in the lab. He didn't bother now. She set his mug down and sat back in the armchair.

After a while she gave up, the silence was not companionable, it was awkward and dead. He didn't drink the coffee; he never did now. He hardly even flinched as she threw her door closed and sobbed until darkness filled the streets.

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Sherlock knew it was his fault. Wasn't it always?

It was his fault that John wasn't well. It was his fault that Lestrade had been suspended. It was his fault that neither Mrs Hudson, nor John could enter the flat without being assaulted by emotions. It was his goddamn fault Molly cried every night. And he couldn't do a thing about any of it. He'd just make it worse.

Maybe they were all right. The kids from school, the police, his father, his brother, Donovan and Anderson. Maybe he was a freak. If he couldn't deal with something as instinctive as this, as comforting another human being, then he was useless.

He returned to wallowing in self pity, and his coffee went cold.

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Day 1

He hasn't said a word since we got here. He seems off. Who can blame him?

Day 5

Still hasn't said anything. I wish he'd at least drink the coffee or look me in the eye.

Day 13

He hasn't moved since last week. One would think his bladder might get full once in a while and he'd have to move, but no. Nothing. He just sits there staring at nothing. It's rather unsettling.

Day 25

I wonder if he's always like this when he doesn't have a case. Like I said. It's unsettling.

Day 33

I don't think he's moved all day. He was in the exact same position as when I left. It's starting to get ridiculous.

Day 50

I think he did something today. My books were rearranged and so was the pantry. I think he ate too. There were dirty dishes by the sink. Well, at least he did something.

Day 58

Back to nothing. It's infuriating. And I don't know how to help.

Day 67

God, I feel useless and absolutely worthless...

Day 79

Still hasn't done a thing.

Day 83

I hate him. He dragged me into this.

Day 90

It's like he doesn't even realise the world is still turning. I doubt he knows the world turns.

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He can hear her now. In her room. Sobbing into the early hours. He wished she'd stop. She'd never know how it made his heart bleed to hear her cry. He wanted to comfort her, but he couldn't move from his spot.

He knew what she did in her room. She cried, and took it all out on herself. If she could only see that he didn't blame her. That he thought she was beautiful. That he knew about her scars and where they came from. That he wished he hadn't caused them.

But he couldn't move.

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Day 100

I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry, Mum. I'm coming, Dad.

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It made her feel better to feel the blade run down her arm. She hadn't even drawn blood yet, and the world was coming back into focus.

Soon blood ran down her arm, and the pain helped her to think rationally for a moment. Why did she put up with it all. She was merely a hindrance to him, and everyone else. Why should she bother?

Another strike across her wrist. Another jolt of pain. Another revelation.

He didn't want her. He had never wanted her. He would never want her. For one brief moment, he had needed her, but never more than that.

She felt her tears streak her skin. She couldn't take it any more.

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He could hear her crying. Again. He knew she was hurting herself, and he wanted to stop her. Kiss her scars, and open cuts and tell her to stop. He needed her to stop, because every time he saw a new scar, he could feel it, the pain of it, in his chest.

She was still going, and he could hear her sobs even clearer. She was apologising over and over, and suddenly he could move. He knew what she was doing. What she was attempting to do, and he could move because his Molly needed him. He walked to her room and pushed the door open.

He was wrong. This wasn't his Molly. Not this girl, kneeling on her bedroom floor, clutching the scalpel like a security blanket. He knelt next to her, and gently pried the blade from her fingers which were covered in her own blood.

"Why?"

"Because. I don't count."

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It was her who brought him back to life, her who woke him from his sleep. A hundred days on the brink of death, and she brought him back. He frowned as he used a small towel to wipe the blood away.

"You count, Molly. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you. I've always needed you. I think I might be able to survive for a while without my blogger, but never without my pathologist."

He bent over and kissed her wrist lightly, and then straightened to pull her into his arms.

"Bring her back. Please bring my Molly back." He whispered to her.

A hundred days was what it took for him, but he'd wait forever for his pathologist.


End file.
